


you were a kindness

by infernal



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Dawn - Freeform, Healing Magic, M/M, Trick or Treat: Treat, not so much PWP as much as 'porn with a considerable amount of introspection'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-02 13:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21162056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infernal/pseuds/infernal
Summary: He isn’t good, but sometimes Caduceus makes him feel like he could be.





	you were a kindness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wiccy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wiccy/gifts).

> Happy Halloween! 
> 
> As a warning, this fic contains references to past sexual encounters Caleb had at the Academy, and while the details are scant, it's pretty clear that those encounters, while consensual, weren't healthy.

The watch so far has been dull. That is, of course, an objectively good thing for a watch to be, but it’s left Caleb’s mind to wander. Nott is snoring to his left, curled up in a ball that makes her even smaller than usual. To his right, Fjord is sleeping with ease, untroubled by dreams of old gods and seawater.

Fjord seems more comfortable these days, Caleb thinks, more settled, and it’s another thing that’s objectively good but sits heavy on Caleb’s mind. There was always something raw in Fjord, a sharp edge; it’s not that it’s dulled since Caduceus and the Wildmother stepped in, but that it’s been sheathed. That edge now has a purpose, a direction, and a nobility about it that Caleb’s own methods have always lacked.

And it’s not that Caleb wishes ill for Fjord, but he’s jealous, fully aware of the ugly parts of himself that are rooted so deeply within him that he chokes on them sometimes, rooted so deeply that even the most diligent gardener would struggle to remove them. To recognize similar in another person, only to see those choke-weeds loosen their hold while his own grow ever deeper, is like salt in a wound.

His watch and his thoughts are interrupted by a noise behind him. He startles, hands already reaching into his pockets for sulfur and guano. When he turns, though, he just sees Caduceus, up early as ever. Caleb wonders idly if it’s Caduceus’s connection to the Wildmother that always has him up with the dawn, when Caleb thinks he himself could sleep for a year if allowed. 

Caduceus gives him one of his easy, open smiles, but his eyes have that look that Caleb finds unnerving sometimes, the one that says he knows exactly what you’re thinking. “Just me,” he says, palms up. “Morning, Mr. Caleb.” 

“Good morning, Mr. Clay,” Caleb says. The sun is easing over the horizon, the sky as pink as Caduceus’s hair, and Caleb stretches, wincing at the crick in his neck from sitting as he had been for so long.

He’s tipping his head each way when he feels Caduceus’s hand, soft and warm, pressing firmly against his neck, and he freezes. “Sore neck?” Caduceus asks, and Caleb nods, the motion pressing him further back against Caduceus’s palm. 

Caduceus squeezes lightly, and then Caleb hears him murmur something under his breath. There’s a quick sensation of heat in his neck before the ache dwindles away to nothing. “It was just stiff,” Caleb protests. “There was no need to waste a spell.”

Caduceus smiles. Rather, he hasn’t _stopped_ smiling, and that’s something Caleb simply doesn’t understand: the way contentedness is a baseline for Caduceus. “It wasn’t a waste,” he says. “You feel better, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” Caleb says. “Thank you. But it was not necessary.” 

“Not everything has to be done out of necessity,” Caduceus says. He moves his hand away, then, but the ghost of its warmth lingers for a long time afterwards.

* * *

The thing is — 

The thing is, Caleb does not do things out of the goodness of his heart. What good was once there was drained away by the Academy, and what good exists there now has been hard won, the result of the people he has surrounded himself with treating him with such kindness that a little bit has slowly leached its way into him. 

His primary motivation since the group came together has always been _keeping_ the group together. At first it was because they could help him reach his goals; now it is because he simply wants them there. A different kind of selfishness, but selfishness all the same, and he doesn’t know if it’s any nobler for the genuine feelings behind it. 

The other thing is — 

He isn’t good, but sometimes Caduceus makes him feel like he could be.

* * *

The sun is still rising when the rest of the group starts to wake. Fjord scowls at the colors permeating the sky. _Red sky at morning, sailors take warning,_ Caleb thinks, and wonders if it’s an omen that typically comes true.

There must be _some_ value to the superstition, because they’ve only been traveling for a few hours when they’re ambushed by bandits. It’s easy enough to deal with them, but Caleb takes a crossbow bolt to the shoulder in the process. “Yikes,” Jester says, looking at the wound after she’s pulled the bolt out. “Um, Caleb, you bleed all the time, like, a _lot_, and I’m pretty sure your blood was a normal color all those other times.” 

Caleb looks a little woozily at his shoulder, and sure enough there’s a black ichor seeping through his robes where he would expect to see red.

“Hey, Caduceus,” Jester calls out as she repositions Caleb so she’s supporting his weight. “Do you have Lesser Restoration ready to go? Because I think those bolts were poisoned, maybe.” 

A few moments later, Caleb feels Caduceus’s hand on his shoulder. “I told you that you shouldn’t have wasted the spell earlier,” Caleb tries to joke, but his voice is weak. Whatever poison is making its way through his veins, it works quickly, and he feels as tired as he did before he went to sleep last night — not that exhaustion is ever truly far away. 

There’s worry in Caduceus’s smile this time, but he shrugs. “Still not a waste,” he says. “Hold still for a moment, all right?” 

It’s an easy instruction to follow; Caleb doesn’t think he could move if he tried. The spell washes over him, gentle and warm as ever, and he relaxes, going slack against Jester. “Is he cured? Caleb, are you cured?” 

“The poison’s gone,” Caduceus confirms, and Jester gives gives Caleb a quick, comforting squeeze around the waist before letting him go, getting to her feet. Caleb tries to get up as well, but staggers, Jester and Caduceus both reaching out to steady him.

Caduceus takes a long look at Caleb, then nods to himself. “Let’s take the rest of the day off,” he says. “Caleb needs rest, and I think we could all do with a bit of a vacation.”

“I am fine,” Caleb says. “Really, there is no need to stop on my accord.” 

“It’s on all of our accords,” Caduceus says.

“I really need to catch up on my sketchbook,” Jester says. “Otherwise the Traveler’s gonna think I don’t love him anymore, and then he’s not gonna help me do spells, and _then_ who’s gonna heal you when you get all gross like this, Caleb?” 

Jester, who has not thrown a single healing spell anyone’s way in days, gives him a pointed look, arms folded across her chest, and Caleb musters a small smile for her. “Point taken,” he says. “Rest it is, then.”

* * *

Resting is almost unbearable. He has grown accustomed to sleeping after expending his magical energies, after working himself into exhaustion, after running for his life, after spikes of fear and adrenaline and anguish. To take a few moments when the sun is beating down on them, when Frumpkin is curled up next to him and purring happily — sleep seems far off, and he is left alone with his thoughts.

Frustrated, he opens his eyes and goes to the campfire. Caduceus sits by the fire, humming to himself as he waits for a pot of water to boil. “Can’t sleep?” he asks. 

Caleb shakes his head. “I fear I may not be as good at taking a break as you hoped.” 

Caduceus gives him a long, considering look before the tea takes his attention again. He pours up two mugs and then stands, holding out a hand to Caleb. “Come on, let’s take our tea and go for a walk.”

* * *

The forest is, to Caleb’s eyes, no different than any of the countless others they’ve seen before. Caduceus, though, examines their surroundings with interest as they pass through, pausing occasionally to point out a bird, or an interesting plant, or the way a ray of sunlight is illuminating a leaf. Caleb is rarely thankful for his perfect memory, but in this moment — Caduceus’s pink hair almost glowing white in the sun, his face full of easy delight — he can’t help but be a little bit glad for it.

“Here we go,” Caduceus says about fifteen minutes into their walk. “It’s a good place to stop.” 

“Is it?” Caleb asks, not noting anything particularly interesting about this spot. 

“Sure,” Caduceus says. “The tea’s the perfect temperature for drinking, so this is the best place to stop.” 

It's sound logic, so Caleb finds a rock that isn’t too mossy to sit on. Caduceus sprawls next to him, leaning against the rock, and offers up the second mug of tea. It is, as he said, the perfect temperature, and Caleb sips it cautiously. "It's very good," he says, after a moment’s consideration, enjoying the faint hint of nutmeg he tastes.

“Thank you,” Caduceus says, and then gets quiet, his smile fading to a gentle upturn of his lips as he closes his eyes, enjoying the sun. 

There’s something expectant about his silence to Caleb, and he’s not sure what it is until there’s an apology tumbling awkwardly off his lips. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Caduceus opens one eye and gives him a curious look. 

“You always are,” he says. “I like that about you.” A burst of warmth goes through Caleb at that, and he lets his gaze dart away to the safety of the forest floor, taking a hurried sip of his tea. 

“You were kind to me this morning, casting that spell,” he says. “And I have been bothering you about it ever since.” 

“Well, you were bothered about it, so it’s only fair you bother me about it too,” Caduceus says. “May I ask what troubled you so much about it? It’s not just that you got poisoned later.” 

Caleb drinks more of his tea — a large mouthful this time, instead of a sip, but his mouth still feels dry. “Nott took a crossbow bolt in that battle as well,” he says. “As did Beauregard. And if it had been them who had been poisoned, not me, and if you hadn’t had the magic to spare —” 

“But they weren’t,” Caduceus says. “And you were. And I did. It all worked out, didn’t it? And if it hadn’t, well, Jester _can_ heal, too, and we have potions.” 

“I —” 

“You know, Mr. Caleb, normally I’d encourage you to be selfless, but that’s not what this is, is it? You want things, but you don’t think you deserve them, so you beat yourself up about it when they happen.”

Caleb licks his lips, opens his mouth, but finds he has no counter-argument. When he chances another look upwards, Caduceus’s eyes are steady on his, his expression patient. “You said earlier it was a waste of a spell,” he tells Caleb. “The real waste would be if I let you sit there and be unhappy when I can do something about it.” 

“If you spend your time trying to keep me from being unhappy, you have many busy days ahead of you,” Caleb says. 

“Yeah,” Caduceus says, fondness in his voice. “I don’t really mind, though, so you shouldn't either.” 

The tea has grown lukewarm at this point, but Caleb gulps it down just for the excuse to tip his head back and close his eyes, hiding behind the mug again. When he's drained it to the last dregs, Caduceus reaches out, taking the mug from Caleb’s hand and setting it down carefully on the moss beside them.

The expectant silence is back, and Caleb finds himself rushing to break it again. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful, you know,” he says. “You know the magnitude of the mistakes I have made, or some of them, at least. Wanting things and appreciating them doesn’t make me understand why you think I am worthy of them.” 

“Redemption’s possible,” Caduceus says with a shrug. “I know that. And the fact that you’re here on this path with the rest of us tells me that your heart knows that, even if your brain hasn’t quite caught up yet.” 

“Caduceus,” Caleb says, and it’s hard to speak again, hard to _breathe_ again. Caduceus gives him another one of those long, searching looks before moving closer, shifting up the rock until they’re sitting with just a hair’s breadth between them. 

Caleb knows this dance, and can’t say he’s unhappy to be back on more comfortable ground. He tilts his chin up, meeting Caduceus’s eyes easily for once. 

“If I’m reading you wrong —” Caduceus begins.

Caleb can’t help but let out a laugh. “When have you ever?” 

“All the same, let me know, okay?” he says, and then he’s finally leaning in. 

Caduceus kisses more decisively than Caleb would have imagined (and has, in fact, imagined many times over). He runs a palm over Caleb’s back, a firm, welcome pressure; his other hand cups Caleb’s face, his fingers tangling in the ends of Caleb’s hair. 

When they part for breath, Caduceus mumbles, “Wow, okay, yeah,” with his mouth still touching Caleb’s as though he doesn’t want to pull all the way back. It makes Caleb smile, makes him surge forward to kiss him again. The sudden motion has them tumbling off the rock and onto the soft moss below them; Caleb laughs helplessly against Caduceus and wonders when the last time he felt this _good_ was, the last time he felt so light, so free.

He hasn’t, he realizes quickly, hasn't _ever_, and it’s a sobering thought. Caduceus sees it on his face, the way the darkness creeps in so easily, and he shakes his head. “No, hey, stay with me. Let me take care of you,” he says, and Caleb feels like he’s plummeting from a great height. He nods, words stolen again, and lets Caduceus kiss him until he’s back to that floating happiness he’d felt before. 

Caduceus maneuvers them so that he’s sitting with his back against the rock, Caleb sprawled across his lap, straddling him. Like this, Caleb can feel that Caduceus is hardly unaffected by him; he rolls his hips, and is rewarded with a low, throaty groan from Caduceus that he already wants to draw from him again and again.

“You haven’t done this before,” Caleb says, remembering allusions in past conversations. “Nothing at all?” 

Caduceus shakes his head. He gives an experimental roll of his own hips, and then another. “Didn’t ever really think about it,” he says. “I've been thinking about it a lot more lately, though.” 

And _oh_, that sends something through Caleb, something blissfully electric that pools in his chest. He kisses Caduceus again, rather messily this time, until Caduceus is arching up against him, fingers digging into Caleb’s hips, forgetting his gentleness as he gets closer to the edge. Caleb relishes the feeling, seeing Caduceus come undone just a little. “Don’t think I’m going to last long,” Caduceus says, voice gravelly. “I wanted to make this good for you, but —” 

“It’s good,” Caleb says. And it is — it is so different than what he’s known before, sex as a game or a challenge, nothing more. This is wonderfully free of artifice, rutting together inelegantly in the middle of the woods, making a mess of themselves, of each other. “It’s so good, Caduceus, _bitte_ —” 

Caduceus comes with another one of those low, beautiful groans, his grip on Caleb’s hips going from tight to bruising. Caleb holds him through it until Caduceus stills, his breath slowing against Caleb’s throat. “Wow,” he says again, and Caleb chuckles. “Here, let me —” 

“By all means,” he says, as Caduceus pushes Caleb’s long coat aside and reaches for the fastenings of his trousers. He lifts his hips obligingly, letting Caduceus slide the fabric down just enough that he can get a hand around Caleb’s cock. His grip, while inexperienced, is confident. Caleb’s eyes have fallen shut, but he can feel Caduceus’s gaze on him, knows from the way that the strokes tighten and speed up that Caduceus is cataloguing his reactions, adjusting accordingly. 

He forces himself to open his eyes again, just so he can commit the images to memory: Caduceus, his eyes hot and focused; the soft, peach-fuzz fur of Caduceus’s hand encircling Caleb’s cock; the fingermarks Caduceus left on Caleb’s hips already starting to redden, promising later bruises. Caleb remembers in perfect clarity other marks he’s worn, marks of conquest he took care to keep hidden, and he thinks he might not mind these ones so much. But it’s a moot point, because Caduceus, ever observant, follows his gaze to the marks and frowns, casting a quick Healing Word. 

The surprise of it, that wonderful warmth flooding his body just as Caduceus gives him a particularly deft stroke, has him crying out against Caduceus’s shoulder as he comes. Caduceus’s strokes turn loose and unsure as Caleb shakes against him, finally pulling away just as the sensation has almost become too much.

Caleb flops back onto the ground, too boneless and languid to do anything more than try to catch his breath. He catches Caduceus looking at the mess of his hand before making a face and wiping it on the ground, with an earnest apology to the moss. Caleb laughs, exhilarated and, for the first time in a long time, utterly content. “Here,” he says, rummaging through his pockets until he locates a handkerchief.

“Thanks,” Caduceus says. He looks around for a moment and locates one of the empty mugs, then casts Create Water into it, dipping the handkerchief in. 

He sits next to Caleb and starts to clean him up. “There is no need —” Caleb starts to say automatically. Caduceus gives him a look, and Caleb grins ruefully. “But it’s very nice,” he finishes. “Thank you.” 

Caduceus leans a little closer. “Between you and me, that was my last bit of magic,” he says.

Caleb laughs again, rising up on his elbows so he can see the merriment in Caduceus’s expression. “I won’t argue with you about it.” 

“See? Now we’re making progress,” Caduceus says happily, and Caleb can’t argue with that, either.


End file.
